


The Prize.

by Raynebow_of_the_Rising_Sun



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:43:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raynebow_of_the_Rising_Sun/pseuds/Raynebow_of_the_Rising_Sun
Summary: Explicit content ahead.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa Stark stood on the last remaining section of parapet near the newly hung greenwood front gate of Winterfell. When she was a girl she would stand here and dream about the world outside of her home. Today, however she stands with her back toward that world, surveying the year worth of repairs to the battle scarred castle. Her sky blue eyes flickering around the inner bailey, taking in the yellow wooden stables, the brown wooden scaffolding and droves of busy workmen scattered amongst piles of melted stone and broken towers.

A lone figure standing still amidst the chaos of the warm, sunny day caught her attention. Or maybe she noticed him because he was a head taller than everyone else at Winterfell. Either way her eyes rested on the huge man who’s choice to stay on at Winterfell to help rebuild the ancient keep still perplexed her.

He had been granted half the Lannister lands for his role in helping to defeat the Night King. A generous reward for the grandson of a kennel master, and one that a very grateful Tyrion Lannister had insisted upon bestowing to the man that had saved his life no less than three times during the battle of Winterfell.

Sandor Clegane had no reason to be here and every reason to leave. But he stayed. And Sansa often found herself wondering why.

He turned in her direction and looked directly at her for the briefest of moments before turning away. Squatting down beside a broken wheel he lifted the side of an otherwise sturdy ox cart and jerked the damaged wheel loose with his free hand.

She shivered despite the weather as she watched him lift the cart a second time to install a new wheel. 

At one time he had scared her simply by existing. She had thought him the worse person in Westeros. A monster of a man with nothing better to do than terrorize young girls and murder people. 

She had been so blind, she admitted to herself, but life had taught her what real monsters were. Not scarred and scarey, though incongruously protective jerks… No, being a jerk didn’t make a man into a monster. Being a monster made a man into a monster.

Monsters like The Mountain, Peter Baelish, Ramsey Bolton and Euron Greyjoy were born, they were not made by scars and harsh words. If she had known that years sooner she may have made a different decision the night the Blackwater had burned. No, she corrects herself, she would have chosen differently. 

But that was all in the past. She couldn’t change it now, she could only learn from it.

*****

Sandor Clegane stared at the busted wheel on the cart he'd been using this morning to help cart wood to the newly erected stable so he and a few of the other men at Winterfell could finish putting up stall dividers. It had broken under the weight of the heavy load, forcing him to shift the beams by hand. If he were at liberty to he'd tear the rest of the damned thing apart with his bare hands. It had caused more than an hour's delay in getting his evil tempered horse into a stall built to withstand the beast's most ferocious attacks, as a result it had managed to bite three people, including Sandor himself, and break another man's leg with a swift kick.

"Bugger it." He spat and turned to leave the broken cart for later. A flapping motion atop the gate caught his attention and drew his eyes to the fiery-haired Lady of Winterfell, her long emerald silk dress billowing in the slight breeze. 

"Fuck." He groaned, turning back to the cart. She was watching him. He could tell by the way she held his gaze without flinching when his eyes had met hers. There was nothing for it, he had to fix the damned thing now. She already thought him low and crude, he refused to add lazy to her low opinion of him.

One of the stable lads had rolled a new wheel over while Sandor had unloaded the cart, so it was at least ready to be fixed. The cart was heavy but not absurdly so, he thought as he lifted it enough to jerk the old wheel off and set it back down to fetch and position the new wheel so that he could wrangle it onto the bare axle with one hand.

When he finished screwing on the lug to hold the wheel in place he glanced surreptiously toward the gate. She was still standing there... looking at him. He supposed she must be trying to intimidate him into leaving, breaking his promise to her brother to help rebuild Winterfell. Well, she'd find that sour, angry looks would never chase him away from fulfilling a promise. Especially not a promise made to a man as honest, decent and honorable as Jon Targaryen. 

He'd see Winterfell restored or die trying.

Emboldened by his own train of thought he turned to stare back at her. Determined not to look away first he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a hip against the newly fixed ox cart.

*****

Sansa almost wanted to wave at the cantankerous man who was staring at her with his arms folded across his massive chest and his jaw set in an insolent jut that nearly made it so that he was looking down his nose at her. Almost. 

Since the moment he'd arrived at Winterfell well over a year ago he'd been avoiding her. She'd tried to talk to him a few times, to thank him for trying to help her, to tell him that she regretted not leaving King's Landing with him, to thank him for saving her life on numerous occasions, for watching over her sister, for everything…. But he'd cut her off within the first three words and stalk away.

She gazed down at him and wanted to try again to talk to him but knew it would be useless... he was as stubborn as he was huge. 

A raven flew past her shoulder and up to the window of the maester's quarters, at the top of the only intact tower left in Winterfell.

A message had come to Winterfell. She frowned slightly, wondering who it could be from then sighed and headed for the tower just incase the message was from Jon. She was hoping for word about her sister. 

Arya had left Winterfell just after the final battle and had not been seen or heard from since. Sansa suspected that wild little Arya had run off with Gendry Baratheon, who had disappeared at the same time, but Jon wasn't so sure that Arya would do such a thing. Nor could he be convinced that Gendry would ellope with their sister without sending word that they were alive and well.

Jon's anxiety about the missing pair had driven him to use his influence as King to try to track her down. So far he had reported only failure.

Sansa climbed the winding stairs to the top of the tower quickly.

Winterfell had no maester currently and she worried that the raven might leave if nobody was there to take the message and feed the hungry bird.

*****

Sandor saw the raven before Sansa did, but he refused to take his eyes off of hers. She started this staring match, and she was going to have to end it... his days of backing down from highborns with low opinions of him were over. 

When she finally broke off staring at him and climbed down from the parapet he shook his head and stomped off to check on his horse. 

*****

Sansa unrolled the scrap of parchment and skimmed the message before doing a double take then reading it more carefully.

*Sansa,

In celebration of the first spring harvest since the victory over the Night King's legions, Daenerys and I have decided to host a tourney at Winterfell for the greatest champions of the War. We'll be arriving around your birthday, and will need lodging for 500 including the Tourney challengers.

All my love,  
Jon. 

P.S. No news of Arya.*

A tournament at Winterfell? Was he mad? Winterfell could hardly provide lodging for the workmen and household guard, where did he expect her to put a royal entourage?

There was a time she'd have been bursting at the seams for just such an event to occur here, but now it all seemed like such a useless way to waste resources. She sighed and tucked the parchment into her glove. There was nothing for it, she couldn't argue with her king, even if she'd like to tell her brother what a bad idea she felt this tournament would turn out to be.


	2. Chapter 2

In the weeks since Jon's tournament announcement had arrived, Sansa had shifted the focus of the repairs from outbuildings to towers.

The bulk of their expected 'guests' could be housed in tents but the Royal household would require much better accomodations and currently there just weren't any available.

There was so much in need of serious repair beyond the lone tower that housed her and all of her personal entourage quite comfortably that she hated to have to work on getting an unnecessary second tower done instead of seeing to the needs of the hundreds of smallfolk who made Winterfell work on a day to day basis. But such was the effort required of the Lady of Winterfell by her King.

Far from the indifference he'd showed her before word of the tourney had arrived Sandor Clegane's attitude toward her recently had become openly hostile whenever they chanced to cross each other's path. She knew she should be angry over his treatment, but for the life of her all she could feel about it was depressed and slightly nauseated.

Sansa rose from her sleepless bed and wrapped herself in the green wool cloak she'd once worn while escaping from King's Landing. She always wrapped this same battered cloak around herself when the clawing loneliness and bitter depression set in. 

This cloak, a symbol of her triumph over the Lannisters, hadn't always been green, it hadn't always been hooded either. No, this cloak had started out white and far too long for her to wear. She had dyed it a deep forest green to cover the bloodstains that had been left on it during the Battle of the Blackwater. 

At first she'd had no idea why she'd kept it, only that it comforted her to have it nearby, tucked away beneath her summer silks. But as Joffrey had become more and more unhinged after the Battle of the Blackwater she had begun to fear he might actually have her possessions searched and discover the bloody cloak. That was when she'd decided to hide it's origin beneath the dye and through altering it to fit her. Unable to part with a single scrap of it, she had fashioned the trimmed away length of it into a flowing hood. 

The cloak had been returned to her from the Eyrie after the Battle of Winterfell… after she'd been saddled with a much more reticent and indifferent Sandor Clegane. She refused to think of his ties to the cloak now, no, now it was simply the cloak that had enabled her escape from King's Landing and her triumph over the Lannisters. This was no longer The Hound's cloak, it was hers.

Sansa pulled the cloak tightly around herself and slipped barefooted from her room to seek out the hound bitch that was all that was left of her childhood at Winterfell. She often sought out the old, half blind bitch when she couldn't sleep. It made her feel closer to her family to be able to ruffle the same coarse fur that had once been ruffled by every member of her family at some point before she had so stupidly traded life at Winterfell for life in King's Landing.

The hound had taken to sleeping on the groundfloor in recent months, no doubt because of the painful stiffness in her hips, so Sansa headed down to seek her comforting presence.

Sansa checked her usual sleeping spots but found no trace of the old bitch. Frowning, she set about searching the rest of the areas where the hound might be. When that search proved fruitless, too, she opened the heavy ironbound oak door and stepped outside, hoping to spot the dog nearby.

Worry began to claw at her when she called out it's name and still could not find the bitch. Very carefully she picked her way across the bailey to the stables, hoping to find the old girl curled up in a nice pile of straw and snoring as loudly as any of her father's men at arms... who she'd often overheard snoring from three floors away.

She bruised her heel on a rock and cut the ball of her other foot on a sharp stone but could not even consider turning back until she found her hound. 

The stamping of feet and rustling of restless horses greeted her inside the stables where only a single fat candle provided a soft glow to keep the horses from being upset by any strange night noises. Though she didn't hear any snoring she set about checking every pile of straw and every stall inside the building. At last, curled up in the corner of an empty stall next to a tall black horse that whinied at her as she approached, she found the old bitch.

"I've been looking for you all over!" She said, a relieved smile tugging at her lips. "Come, girl."

The dog didn't stir, so Sansa opened the gate and walked into the stall. "Girl?" She said a little louder.

Sansa knelt next to the hound and reached out to ruffle the wirey fur. She pulled her hand back and bowed her head, tears sprang from her eyes at the realization that the old bitch was dead. 

*****

Sandor awoke with a start at the sound of Stranger's aggressive whiney. His horse only made that sound toward humans or other dangerous beasts, so he levered himself into a crouch and crept out of the dark, empty stall on the far side of Stranger from the old sleeping hound bitch he'd found sitting outside the tower door and coaxed out of the chilly night air and into the relative warmth of the stables.

The need to get away from the stench of three dozen workmen jammed into one small bunk house had driven him to sleeping in the stables for the past few weeks, but this was the first time he'd been awakened in the night by strange doings.

He bit back a curse when he heard a feminine voice that could only belong to Sansa Stark. At first he thought she might be talking to him, but then he realized she had come for the hound bitch. He was about to return to his blankets when the sound of quiet weeping reached his ears.

He peeked into the stall and saw Sansa on her knees next to the old hound, the candle he left burning for Steanger clutched in one hand, and the other dashing at the tears that poured from her eyes.

*Bloody hell.* He thought to himself.

In all the times he had seen her being beaten and abused at Joffrey's command he had never seen Sansa weeping like this. She looked so tiny and fragile in her oversized, battered, green cloak with tears dripping from her chin that he couldn't help but go to her.

"Little Bird." He said softly, stroking her shoulder gently.

Sansa looked up at him, even squatting he towered over her. "She's dead." Sansa said.

"Aye, she's dead." He said sadly. 

"She was the last living thing at Winterfell from before… from when we were all together here." She sobbed. 

"No, she wasn't." He coaxed gently. "You're here. You're alive."

"I don't want to be." She declared.

Sandor stared at her in shock, momentarily stunned by her words. "How can you even think that, let alone feel it?" He asked, his voice was mildly reproachful. 

He honestly could not understand it. After all she'd been through, after surviving so much… she was ready to quit over the death of an old hound?

"How can I not?" She asked, irritated. "I have no one and nothing."

"You have Winterfell." He reminded her.

"This isn't Winterfell. It's the decimated corpse of Winterfell." She said forcefully.

"You have… your bother, Jon, he'll be here soon."

"And gone again shortly after." She countered.

"You have hundreds of people who rely on you for their very survival." He said, unable to think of anything more personal.

"I have no one that I can rely on." She said and burst into fresh sobs. "All I had left was an old hound that my whole family had once petted, and now she's gone too."

"Ah, Little Bird." He sighed and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her, holding her until the tears began to ebb.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa awoke in her own bed, tangled in her green wool cloak with absolutely no idea of how she'd gotten there. The last thing she remembered was weeping all over The Hound because of the death of her hound. Fresh tears trickled from her eyes at the thought of old Bluebelle. She supposed Sandor Clegane had brought her to her bed. 

At the thought of him she dried her eyes and became increasingly angry with each breath she took. 

If he intended to treat her like rubbish or ignore her existence forever, how dare he show her such sweet tenderness? How dare he strut around her home for weeks treating her like rubbish and then have the gall to hold her while she wept, murmurring soothing words and stroking her hair until she fell asleep? How dare he carry her to her room and lay her down on her bed after soothing her to sleep so lovingly? 

Bolstered against the pain in her heart by anger she dressed and limped down to the small hall to break her fast. She was spoiling for a fight, but the subject of her ire was nowhere to be seen.

Sansa wound up skipping lunch. She was far too busy overseeing the construction of the tourney grounds to worry about her rumbling belly. 

Her birthday was less than a week away. Jon, Daenerys, and baby Lyanna, along with 500 retainers would be here very very soon. 

At supper she caught her first glimpse of Clegane since she'd cried herself to sleep in his arms. Though she'd been famished for half the day, her apetite fled at the sight of him. Instead of reaching for her food she picked up her goblet of dornish wine and gulped it down in one long drink.

No sooner had she sat the cup back down than it was refilled by an attendant.

Staring daggers at The Hound she nursed her second cup completely empty in far less time than she even noticed.

She sneered at his back as Sandor Clegane left the hall ahead of the arrival of the final course. 

*****

Sandor cursed himself for being a fool and a coward as he stomped into the stable. He had endured her loathing stares far longer than he'd been comfortable with just to prove a point, but now he couldn't remember what point he'd been hoping to prove. Or to whom.

Damn her, he thought, why did she have the ability to completely ruin him with a tear stained face? Tears don't bother him, they never have. So why, when he'd chanced upon her weeping, had he been helpless to walk away and leave her to them? He'd always been undone by her tears. Even when she'd been no more than a tall skinny child with all the curves of a fence post. 

When he'd arrived here not quite a year and a half ago he'd been shocked by his own reaction to Sansa Stark. 

Though she'd always been a beautiful child, he'd only ever been afforded a glimpse of the beauty she was to become in her womanhood. Seeing her all filled out, all grown up, and in her element had hit him like a punch in the gut. He'd had to stay away from her. For his own protection. 

He'd barely managed to control himself around her when touching so much as a strand of her hair without permission was tantamount to treason… but now? With the way she'd looked at him last year? As if he were the answer to all of her prayers? He'd realized he had a lot more to lose than just his miserable life. 

Treason was worth risking, his life a useless commodity to be traded like wheat… but she'd grown into a far greater threat to him than Joffrey or the Night King or fire could ever be. They had the power to kill him, true, but she had the power to steal his soul. 

He'd had to gain distance from her. He could never hope to rise to her level and she could never sink to his... even if by some miracle she wanted to, the realm, the Lords and Ladies and her own brother, the King, would never allow her to.

But one dead hound and a few pretty tears had undone all of his resolve. And he was right back to being hopelessly smitten by her. He hadn't even realized how deeply until he'd tucked her into her own bed last night and caught himself staring at her with a smile on his hideous face and his heart full near to bursting with the need to wake her up and kiss her.

He viciously kicked the doorway to the stall he'd commandeered for his own use. It wasn't meant to open inwardly, but he'd given it no other choice. The sound of splintering wood jerked a line of foul language out of him. Now he'd have one more repair to add to the already overwhelming list of things in need at Winterfell.

Damn her! Damn him! Damn it all to the seven bloody hells!

*****

Sansa downed another half tankard of sweet red wine before excusing herself and heading to her chamber. Once inside she stripped down to her shift and threw herself across the bed.

All day she'd been far too busy to give any thought at all to what had caused her anger over being held and comforted so lovingly by the giant of a man who had found her weeping alone over the body of her faithful hound. But now, alone in her room with a tankard of Dornish wine in her empty belly to dull her senses it started to make an odd kind of sense to her.

He had always been gentle with her, he'd protected her, he'd attempted to rescue her…he had kissed her, and left her his bloody cloak. The cloak she'd escaped in. The cloak she'd always been comforted by.

She reached for the cloak now and pulled it around herself.

Why had he come to her? Why had he offered her his protection? Why had he asked her to leave with him? Why had he kissed her? Why had he given her his cloak? 

She needed to know why… because she was beginning to suspect that her giant shadow just might be in love with her. Why else would he do all of that and then turn around the next time she saw him and be a jackass towards her until the first moment he saw her being vulnerable? 

She jerked upright then stopped to hold her spinning head until the dancing bears in her stomach went still again. Gingerly she stood up and slipped her feet into the slippers she had discarded earlier. Having finally thought of a logical reason for his behaviour she was determined to find out the truth of the matter... and she knew just where to find him. 

Straightening the cloak around herself to hide her shift she slipped out of her room and down the service stairs through the chaotic kitchen and out the open door.

*****

Sandor kicked the already broken door again then again, loosing his pain on the broken wood as if it might actually satisfy him if he splintered the wood as badly as his feelings for Sansa had splintered him.

"You're in love with me." She informed him with slightly slurred but blunt words.

The sound of her voice pulled him back to reality and with one last vicious kick to the wood he turned to face her.

"You're drunk." He growled.

"Yes, and you're in love with me." She swayed slightly. "Tell the truth."

"What for? What the fuck would it change?" His breath still heaving from his exertions he challenged her to see the only truth that mattered.

"Everything." She slurred.

"Nothing." He snarled.

They stared at each other, momentarily at an impasse.

"Why else would you do all that you did for me in King's Landing?" She demanded.

"I hated Joffrey." He wasn't lying, but he wasn't confessing either.

"You kissed me because you hated Joffrey?" She gave him an arch look.

"What the fuck are you talking about? I never kissed you." He snapped.

"You did." She insisted. "The night of the Blackwater. You kissed me and left me this cloak."

He gaped at her. That cloak? The cloak she wore nearly constantly? That was his white cloak? Batting that thought out of his mind he focused on the other part of her accusation. "I never kissed you." He insisted.

"I remember it clearly." Sansa said just as stubbornly. "You kissed me then threw me down on the bed and threatened to kill me if I didn't sing."

He had *wanted* to kiss her, he remembered, but he had done no such thing. No amount of wine could have erased the taste of her lips from his mind, no, he had definitely not kissed her... but he'd wanted to… even now, he wanted to.

Sansa's eyes grew larger and rounder as he closed the distance between them and leaned down to glare into them. "I would remember if I had kissed you, Little Bird." He said softly, his warm, wine scented breath fanning over her face. "Never doubt that."

A shiver ran down Sansa's spine but she was determined to have her answers. "I do remember kissing you, Sandor." Her voice was more breathless than if she had run a mile, and that realization forced a crimson glow across her cheeks.

Sandor could think of nothing more he could say to convince her, so he gave up trying to convince her with words. Like a flash of lightning his hands snaked out and jerked her against him. A heartbeat later his mouth descended on hers.

He kissed her with every ounce of nearly seven years of repressed need. He plundered her mouth and fondled her body. He inhaled her breath and swallowed her moans. He shoved away the impossibility of their situation and melted into her bones. He answered her blunt questions and accusations with the raw unvarnished truth of his kiss and when he was finished he shoved her away.

"Now I've kissed you, Sansa." He panted. "And it still changes nothing. Leave. Run away to your tower and lock your chamber door." His voice took on edge of near madness "Go, girl, lock your door against the monster who would have you, body and soul, if only he could."

Sansa gazed up at his thunderous expression in dazed, wide eyed wonder as his words sliced through her drink and kiss addled mind.

"Go!" He barked, trembling head to toe from the effort it was taking to let her go.

"No." She said firmly.

He looked like a man on fire when her answer hit him with the force of a giant's hammerblow. Sansa repressed a grin. "I am not leaving until you tell me that you love me."

"I just did." He growled.

"I want the words." She insists though she can clearly see that he's at the end of his strength and fighting with everything in hin not to reach for her again.

"Words are wind." He grits out between clenched teeth.

"Then it will cost you nothing to give me what I want." She demands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit content ahead.

Sandor glared at her for a long moment. "Which words, Sansa?" He finally asked, his tone beyond frustration. "Do you want to hear me tell you a bunch of sweet lies about forever? Do you want me to pretend that generatoons from now girls like you will sing songs about us? The Wolf and The Hound? Aye, I can tell you lies that will make you smile." He reached out to grab her but stopped himself. He couldn't touch her, he wouldn't be able to stop touching her.

Sansa watched him ball his hands into fists and drop them back to his sides with a sigh. "I just want you to tell me the truth." She said softly. "Tell me you love me."

"The truth." He scoffed. "The truth is: you are the Lady of Winterfell and I'm a nobody that spends his days hauling wood and pounding nails. You sleep in feathers and furs and I sleep in the stable. You command half the kingdom and I can't even command respect. The only truth that matters is… it doesn't matter if I love you or hate you, I'm nobody and you're not."

"You're not nobody." She said softly. "You're The Hound." Then more firmly. "You have lands near Lannisport, thousands of prime acres and hundreds of small folk to work them… you're not nobody!"

"You are the daughter of a line of Kings that dates back thousands of years." He reminded her. "I'm the grandson of a kennel master."

"That doesn't matter!" She snapped, tired of hearing him tear himself down. 

"That's all that matters." He said sadly. "Go on pretty little bird, fly away. Birds never fair well when they are caught by a hound."

"I am not a bird." She snarled. "I'm a wolf."

Without taking the time to think about it she launched herself at him. Wrapping her arms around his neck she pulled him down to her even as she stretched up toward him until she could fuse her mouth to his. 

It took Sandor's stunned mind a moment to catch up to the fact that she was kissing him. The thought of pushing her away flittered through his mind but before he could her tongue slipped into his mouth and chased that and all other rational thoughts away. For a time all that existed to him was the heady feel of her firm breasts crushed against his chest, the sweet smell of her honied skin, the intoxicating taste of her wine flavored mouth, the primal sound of her harsh breaths and deep throated moans mingling with his own.

Sansa was lost in a haze of need and desperation. She'd initiated this kiss and poured every ounce of her heart and soul into it but it was she who was now consumed. Mindless. Wanton. Desperate.

She made no concious decision to reach beneath his tunic and thread her fingers through the coarse hair sprinkled over his chest, she just did it... relishing the growling sound of his moan as she did so.

She didn't think about caressing his arousal through the rough brown wool of his britches, she just did it… and her knees nearly buckled when he pressed himself more firmly into her palm, rubbing back against her hand in rythm with their tangling tongues.

She didn't consider tugging loose the leather tie that would free his engorged manhood, she just did it… and thoroughly explored him with one hand even as the other crept back into the hair at the base of his skull.

Sandor was far beyond being capable of thought. He was existing now in a realm of pure sensation. All of his fine intentions to do the honorable thing and stay away from Sansa Stark fled from his mind at the touch of her silken fingers against his skin. They fled further than the moon when she grasped him in her fist and began to slide up and down the length of his shaft, while her thumb flicked across the overly sensitized tip of his erection with every stroke. And they died a quick and painless death when he spilled his seed into her palm.

Sansa pulled her mouth from his and looked down at the creamy mess on her hand. She sniffed it then brought her smoldering eyes back to his before her tongue flicked out and scooped most of it into her mouth.

The sight of her lapping his cum off of her palm and fingers with her tongue while staring directly into his eyes didn't drop him to his knees, the sound of her voice when she purred "Mmmm…" at the taste of it did.

Tugging her down to the floor was the easiest thing in the world when she was so eager to be beneath him. Sliding her white shift up to her waist was even easier with her jerking it upward until only the green wool of her cloak lay between the skin of her backside and the straw on the floor. 

Sansa opened her legs for him eagerly. 

Sandor blinked owlishly down at her glistening sex, revealed to him by her widely parted thighs, and needed to taste her far more than he needed his next breath. 

He fell on her like a pack of starving wolves on a fresh kill. His hands and lips, teeth and tongue tearing her apart bit by bit until she screamed her climax loud enough to panic the sleeping horses.

"Now! Sandor! Please!" She sobbed. "I need you to love me! Please! I want to feel you inside me."

Sandor rocked back and looked at her in surprize before thrusting one long finger into her spasming sheath. She was so slick with her own arousal and ejaculant that he knew her warm depths would welcome his length and girth despite the tightness of her around his lone finger. He withdrew his finger and slid it back inside then withdrew it and added a second one for the next plunge. 

Sansa writhed against his hand as he plundered her with his fingers, shouting his name and begging him for more. But he held back… enjoying every tortured moan and grunt and groan as she built to a second peak and then a third. He replaced his hand with his mouth and wrung a fourth screaming orgasm from her quivvering body.

When he positioned himself beside her on the straw and took her into his arms Sansa was sure he meant to make love to her now, so when he tucked her neatly against his body she went eagerly. It took her a moment to realize he had no intention of using the rock hard length of arousal that was digging into her belly like an iron spike.

"Sandor?" She asked against the front of his tunic. "Why wont you love me?"

"I do love you, Sansa." He whispered. "I love you enough to not dishonor you by planting my bastard in your belly. Now hush and let me hold you."

Sansa curled into him even closer, smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

Jon and his company of over five hundred retainers, tourney challangers, men at arms and several travellers from the King's road who'd chosen to follow along and watch the tourney, arrived the morning of Sansa's nineteenth name day.

All of Winterfell and half of the people in the Winterlands were there to greet the Royal procession. 

Sansa hugged her brother and his wife with real affection but it was her niece that wrung squeals of delight from the usually reserved and stoic Lady of Wintetfell. Sansa snatched the toddler from Daenerys's arms and planted kisses all over the raven haired tyke's chubby little face as her brother laughed heartily.

Sansa turned to lead the King and Queen into the tower to feast, as is customary, and caught Sandor's eyes glued to her and the child with such longing in their grey depths that she couldn't help but smile hugely and raise her eyebrows at him in invitation.

*****

Jon spotted The Hound the moment he stepped past Sansa to enter the small hall. Never one to stand on ceremony Jon walked over and clasped Sandor's forearm in the Northern equivallent of a handshake, "Clegane! You old grouch! It's good to see that you're still here." And escorted Sandor up to the high table, asking the much taller man all about the recent repairs to Winterfell.

Once seated just three chairs down from the King, who sat in the middle of the long narrow tressel table, Sandor had begun to drink heavily. He was uncomfortable sitting at the high table, Sansa to his left, The Queen to her left and King Jon sitting next to his wife.

"My money is on you for tourney champion, Clegane." Tyrion, who sat to Jon's left called to Sandor from just four seats away in the first chair to the King's right. "Since Brienne of Tarth isn't entering."

"Kiss it goodbye. I'm not entering either." Sandor barked back then drained his second horn of ale in under two minutes.

Tyrion's jaw dropped open in half-mock, half-real shock. "You're joking, right? You do know the prize that goes to the winner of the tournament, don't you?"

"It's not enough." Sandor said dismissively.

"Lordship of all of High Garden and Guardian of the East isn't enough? What isn't it enough for?" Tyrion sputtered, taken aback.

Sandor paused chewing on a big bite from a roasted leg-quarter of chicken for a second then resumed for a few more seconds before answering.

"Not enough to make me enter the tournament... I'm done fighting." He said with a finality that rung true.

"What would be enough?" Jon asked, a little confused but smiling.

"Nothing." Sandor answered with a shrug in his voice.

"You can't tell me there is nothing you want enough to fight for." Jon's smile faded. 

"Nothing you can give me." Sandor said gruffly.

"What can't I give you? I have twenty different estates with extinct houses that would instantly make you a lord, choose one and I'll make you a side bet with it." Jon said, sure that this would be enough.

"Not interested." The Hound didn't bother looking up from his food to answer this time.

Daenerys turned admiring violet eyes toward the big man. "Perhaps a bride of your choosing? We would never force anyone to get married but we could speak on your behalf... you'll find most girls would be thrilled to marry the Lord of High Garden."

Sandor hessitated for a long beat, his eyes flicked to Sansa for only half a blink but Jon saw it. "Except Sansa." He said, smiling reassuringly to his sister. "She has more than earned her right to choose if and who to marry - without my interference."

Sansa frowned at her brother. "He doesn't want to enter your tournament, just leave him alone."

Sandor glanced at her, surprized at the rancor in her voice.

"I'm not entering." He said but his voice was more introspective than in previous denials.

Jon sighed, shaking his head. "That's a shame, I need good men in the south to help us rebuild. You would have been the perfect man to restore High Garden."

"What if I could talk Sansa into including herself in the bridechoice?" Daenerys asks. "Would you consider entering for a chance to win Winterfell?"

Sansa's wide blue eyes shot to his narrowed grey ones. Sandor looked into her eyes and answered, "No."

For a moment Sansa's face registered incredulity and pain but she hid them quickly behind a mask of indifference.

"Not to win Winterfell." He said firmly, eyes still glued to her face. He dragged his eyes away from Sansa and planted them firmly on Jon. "For your blessing to marry your sister."

Sansa's hugely rounded blue eyes flicked back and forth between the two men.

"If she'd have me." Sandor said, drowning in the bright cerulean pools that were now locked onto his eyes.

Jon grinned hugely and said with real approval, "You have it, win or lose... provided you try your best."

Sansa swallowed and tried to speak but had the take a drink from her water glass first. "On one condition." She said, her face glowing.

"Name it." Sandor said quietly.

"Jon gets to knight you if you lose." Sansa smirked up at him.

Sandor rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly in exasperation before answering, "Alright." 

"Good! It's settled then!" With mischief in his eyes Tyrion raised his goblet toward the Hound. "To your nuptials, Ser Sandor!"

A round of 'hear here's went around before the whole room drank merrily to the toast.

"Lord Tyrion, you mentioned that Lady Brienne wont be entering, may I ask why?" Sansa asked near the end of the meal. "She fought valliantly during the war and I understand that the field is open to all nobles who fought by Jon's side... Does she not qualify for a chance at High Garden simply because she's a woman?"

"Oh! No, no no no, my dear Sansa." Tyrion smiled mockingly. "Brienne more than qualifies to enter and would be a welcome addition to the lists. No, I'm afraid she's chosen not to participate while with child. I can't say that I blame her given that she is more than halfway through her pregnancy and her armor doesn't quite fit these days." 

Sansa blanched. Brienne was with child? "I didn't know she had married."

Tyrion smirked. "It seems our friend Tormund somehow convinced her to battle him in single combat with the winner getting to choose their prize. She chose his hand in marriage."

Sandor nearly choked on a swallow of ale before bursting out laughing. "Gods above! She's just as mad as he is!" He guffawed.

*****

They first day of the three day tournament dawned bright and clear. Excitement rode on the wind along with the odors of a thousand spectators, hundreds of horses, food and drink vendors that had come to watch a field of 50 of the greatest heroes from the war for the living compete for the lordship of High Garden.

Each combatant had been chosen specifically because they were worthy of such a prize. 

Sandor couldn't care less if he tried about winning High Garden, he was there, not necessarily to win, but to do his best and win a much better prize. Though the incentive to not lose was great as well… he had no wish to be knighted.

All 50 combatants would have to prove themselves with sword and lance. The first round, though, was to be a grand melee where combatants were allowed to use the weapon of their choice. The winner of the melee would be granted the boon of a second chance should he lose a round with sword or at the joust. Everyone else would be eliminated from competition with a single loss. The winner of the joust was to face the winner of the sword on foot in the final match, with the weapon of their choice - except a sword or lance.

Sansa was both proud and disappointed when Sandor won the melee. She truly did want him to be knighted. She knew it was silly, and that many many knights were not the stuff of songs and legends, but still, she wanted with all her heart to know at least one knight that was worthy of the title. But if Sandor won the tourney she feared she'd never meet a true knight. 

When he won the sword the next day she was downright dejected. If he won the joust he would automatically win the tourney… and not have to accept knighthood. But even if he lost the joust he'd have a second chance at winning the joust and if he lost a second time he'd still get to face the joust winner in single combat… and he'd already won the Melee… either way with the extra chance afforded him from his victory in the melee he was in a wonderful position to win the tournament. And she didn't want that. She wanted him to lose so that he would have to accept a knighthood.

The joust took place on the third day and Sandor handily won his first match by unseating a knight who was no larger than Jon, on their first tilt.

His second match was a less decisive victory, coming down to points, but Sandor won it as well with a score of 3 to 2. 

Sansa left the pitch after his third victory, too upset to stay and watch her dreams for him die. He had only 2 rounds left to go and the chances of him losing both seemed slim to her.

She was nearly back to the gates of Winterfell, a two mile walk from the jousting pitch, when the sound of racing hooves caught her attention. She turned to see her betrothed coming up fast on his huge black stallion. With a sigh she waited for him there by the gate, it wasn't a long wait.

"You left." Sandor barked, dismounting hurriedly.

"I did." She agreed but added no more.

"Why?" He demanded.

"Because you're going to win." She said baldly.

"I have to do my best." He reminded her.

"I know, but I don't have to stay and watch it." She said, her chin set at a stubborn angle.

"It means that much to you?" He stepped closer, peering into her eyes. "To see me knighted?"

Not trusting her voice she gave an affirmative jerking nod of her head.

He bit back a curse. "It means as much to me to have you there." He rasped, reluctant to tell her that even though it was the truth. "Come back with me."

She seriously considered telling him no but after a short inner debate she reluctantly agreed.

Sandor mounted then pulled her up behind him and raced back to the pitch just in time to tilt in his fourth of five jousts.

The fourth match ended in much the same way as the second and third, with Sandor scoring more points than his opponent.

Sansa watched the final match through watery eyes as once again The Hound proved his ferocity and unseated his opponent this time on the second tilt.

The crowd went wild. Money changed hands. Tyrion whooped and hollered his thanks as Sandor strode over to the royal box. "I knew you could do it, Clegane, but even I didn't expect you to win all three events!" Tyrion laughed heartily as noble after noble pressed fat purses into his hands until he had a big bulge of purses in his tunic just above his belt. "Well done!"

"Piss off." Sandor called back without a trace of animousity.

Jon stepped down from the raised platform and shook Sandor's hand. Sandor leaned in and said something for Jon's ears only. Jon looked up at the big man in surprise then grinned and nodded.

Sansa stepped to the edge of the platform as Jon raised his hands in a shushing gesture and the crowd quietened.

"It seems our victor has chosen not to accept his prize." Jon called out in a ringing voice. "So our second place champion, Ser Hubert Longtree will be granted Lordship over all of High Garden." 

There was a smattering of applause that was nearly drowned out by the burst of murmurs that followed Jon's announcement.

"Kneel, Sandor Clegane." Jon commanded, unsheathing Longclaw.

Sandor knelt, but kept his eyes on Sansa.

Sansa frowned when Sandor took a knee, unsure of why her heart had leapt into her throat when her mind dismissed the reality of what she was seeing.

When Jon began leading Sandor through the vows reality caught up to Sansa and tears began to stream down her face even as a huge smile spread across it.

No sooner had he arisen as Ser Sandor Clegane than Sansa flung herself into his arms and covered his face with kisses and tears. The stunned crowd roared their approval loudly enough to be heard for miles around. But neither the She-Wolf of Winterfell nor The Hound heard a bit of it over the pounding of their own hearts.

**********  
The End.  
**********


End file.
